


That's What You Get For Waking Up

by alpha_exodus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blackouts, Hangover, M/M, Mentions of Dubious Consent Due to Alcohol, Morning After, Morning Sex, Mutual Pining, Pensieves, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-03-26 11:56:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13857291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpha_exodus/pseuds/alpha_exodus
Summary: Draco wakes up in the morning hungover and with someone in his bed. He never could've dreamed it would be Harry Potter.





	That's What You Get For Waking Up

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to G & K for betaing!! <3

Draco wakes up with the worst bloody hangover he’s had in years.

 _Fuck_ , his head is pounding, and his stomach feels like it wants to eat him alive—Merlin, this room is too fucking bright, and he doesn’t want to move at all but if he could just reach the drawer of his nightstand—

He tugs the drawer open. Finally, his fingers brush over the rough cork stopper of a vial, and he sighs in relief, grabbing it and fumbling it open so he can gulp down the hangover potion he’d put there purposefully before going to Blaise’s party last night. Salazar knows he’d expected to need it, what with how Blaise’s _last_ birthday party went.

Then he lies there on his side, relishing the sudden lack of feeling like he’s about to implode. He’s just contemplating going back to sleep when he hears the sheets rustling behind him, feels the bed shift in a way that means—fuck.

There’s someone there, isn’t there?

He—he doesn’t remember bringing anyone home with him. Merlin.

Fucking Blaise.

Very, very slowly, he rolls onto his back in hopes that he can avoid waking whoever is there—except when he finally turns his head to look, he meets the eyes of a very naked, very awake Harry Potter.

What the bloody _fuck?_

Potter’s face spreads into a slow, warm smile, and for a moment Draco thinks he must be dreaming because Potter has never, ever looked at him like that.

Even if Draco has maybe always wanted him to. Just a little.

“Hey,” Potter says, and Draco had been about to ask what the fuck Potter’s doing in his bed, but Potter’s tone takes his breath away.

He sounds… almost fond.

What the hell happened last night?

Draco swallows back a sudden, absurd lump of emotion in his throat—he _must_ be dreaming, or maybe he’s gone and purchased one of the WWW’s new and improved daydream charms, although their charmwork obviously needs some tinkering if the daydreams are allowed to include such terrible hangovers.

To make things worse, he’s getting hard—because, okay, yes, he thinks Potter is fucking sexy, all right? And Potter’s _naked_ next to him, and somehow the covers got tossed aside and there’s only a sheet covering them, doing nothing to hide that Potter also seems to have morning wood, and Potter’s just _staring_ at him—

Merlin, this is like every wank fantasy he’s had since he first realized he wanted to fuck blokes back at Hogwarts—and all right, maybe it was one bloke in particular with dumb green eyes and stupid messy hair that happened to trigger that, but still. And instead of feeling sexy and suave like he always imagined, he’s confused and horny and has no idea how Potter even got here in the first place.

Draco kind of wants to crawl into a hole and hide there until the next century.

He also kind of wants to just let this play out because either this isn’t real or it’s a one-time fluke that will certainly never be happening again. And he wouldn’t be a true Slytherin if he didn’t take advantage of the fact that Potter is _naked_ in his _bed_ , would he?

Draco clears his throat.

“Hi,” he says, and even though his response is belated, Potter’s grin grows impossibly wider.

And Potter’s eyes are fucking sparkling.

Draco quite thinks he could get lost in them if he didn’t force himself to look away right that moment.

Because there’s no way… no _way_. Any minute now, Potter is going to blink back to reality and realize that he’s in bed with _him_ , with Draco fucking Malfoy, ex-Death Eater and occasional snobby little shite. Neither of them is drunk anymore. There’s no reason for Potter to want to stay.

But Potter shifts toward Draco, and Merlin, he smells like whiskey and aftershave and sex. Draco can feel the warmth coming off of his body in waves.

Fuck it all—that’s it. Draco’s going to stop thinking and _enjoy_ this, no matter how terrible the repercussions are later.

“How’re you feeling?” Potter says, except then he reaches out a hand, trailing it hot down Draco’s stomach and toward the edge of the sheet, and how is Draco supposed to answer that question when Potter is _touching_ him like that?

“F-fine,” Draco says, and he can feel himself flushing, which makes him want to get irritable because now he’s _vulnerable_.

But Potter just lets out a husky laugh, and Merlin, that’s the most unfair thing in the world because never in Draco’s wildest daydreams was Potter this bloody sexy.

Potter pushes the sheet down. Draco gets a brief glimpse of his own cock, flushed and leaking against his stomach, and then Potter slides down the bed and licks a long stripe up his shaft.

“Wha—hnngh, Potter!” Draco clenches his hands in the sheets, gasping for air because fuck. _Fuck._

Potter chuckles, and Draco can’t even be annoyed at him for that because then he’s swirling his tongue around the head of Draco’s cock and Draco couldn’t even straighten his thoughts out if he was Imperio’d to.

Then Potter finally takes him into his mouth, steadying Draco’s cock with one hand and leaning on the other arm as he sucks him down wetly again, again, and Draco is going to fucking die because this can’t be real. Fuck, he hadn’t even known that Potter was into _blokes_ , and now he’s here acting like a sex god, voluntarily sucking Draco off, looking at him like he _likes_ him or something.

And judging from the way Draco’s skin feels slightly sticky, they’d certainly done more than just blowjobs last night.

Except he can’t remember _any_ of it.

But Potter seems to know exactly how to distract him because then he nudges Draco’s knees apart, pulling off of his cock with a wet pop. “You said you’d let me do this later,” he says, grinning as he Summons a jar of lube. _Wandlessly_.

And as if that wasn’t hot enough, Potter sits up, cock bobbing between his legs, and he’s fucking _hung_ —

Draco groans and spreads his legs.

Potter actually fucking shivers. “God,” he mumbles quietly, eyes going all half-lidded as he opens the jar.

“What?” Draco says sharply, and he has to look away then because Potter is—

He’s just. Beautiful.

This is so _unfair_ , having all of this sprung on him, and Draco can’t help that he’s been in love with the idiot for basically half of his life. Especially since Potter’s somehow has wormed himself into every single social gathering Draco’s been to since the war, making nice with Draco’s friends and joking around and grinning at Draco all the damn time.

Draco always, _always_ wants to touch him. And now it seems they’ve touched each other quite a lot, and he can’t fucking remember it.

“You okay?” Potter asks, smoothing his hand over Draco’s thigh.

Draco jolts. “What? I’m fine,” he mutters, hooking a hand under one knee and hitching it upwards because fuck, Potter’s going to be _inside_ of him.

“You looked… I dunno. Brooding,” Potter says, cracking a smirk as he keeps stroking Draco’s thigh, and Draco’s heart actually fucking flutters in his chest.

“Shut up,” Draco says.

Potter laughs. “You seemed to be fine with me running my mouth all last night,” he says cheekily.

“Potter—” Draco starts, meaning to chastise him for taking so fucking _long_. But just then, as if Potter’s read his mind, Draco feels a slick finger sliding along his crack, drifting over his hole and away again. “Fuck,” Draco says, looking away.

“Mm,” Potter hums, and that finger is back, circling Draco’s entrance, pressing but not quite dipping in.

Draco shivers. Potter is merciless, apparently.

“Get on with it,” Draco grumbles, and Potter snorts and disregards his words completely, continuing to tease him, stroking up and down and adding more lube until Draco is dripping wet and his nerve endings feel like they’re fucking on fire. He squirms against Potter’s hand, trying as hard as he can to get Potter to push a finger inside of him, but every time he tries, Potter moves his hand away, grinning.

Fucking tease.

“This is brilliant,” Potter says, his voice all breathy, and Draco can’t hide his subsequent shudder.

“What do—fuck, what do you mean?” he asks, trying in vain to press back against Potter’s fingers once more. “We haven’t even done anything yet.”

Potter rolls his eyes but he’s smiling. “ _Now_ you’re being coy. You basically asked for this,” he says, laughing when Draco bucks fruitlessly against his hand.

And fuck, he _asked_ for this—what does that even _mean?_ Did he ask to be teased within an inch of his life? Did he ask for Potter to take his sweet fucking time until Draco’s on the edge of begging because—

Oh.

Bloody buggering fuck. He _does_ want this. It’s something he’s always daydreamed about, being touched without being allowed to come, having someone—for lack of a better word— _worship_ his arse, and shite.

He likes it. A lot.

Of course Potter managed to drag that out of him after one fucking shag.

And—oh Merlin. Potter’s not going to fuck him until he begs, is he?

He can’t help himself from letting out a long, low whine, as Potter’s finger circles his arsehole once again.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Potter mutters, and Draco wants to give in but then Potter’s smirking at him, and Salazar, he’s going to have to _ask_ , to actually say the words, and it’s just as equally sexy as it is embarrassing.

It’s also kind of everything he’s wanted from a sexual encounter. Not to mention that it’s _Potter_ , in all his lightning-bolt-scarred, green-eyed glory.

And it doesn’t help that Draco’s been head-over-heels for him for far too long.

“Hmm,” Potter hums, and Draco looks at him questioningly.

It turns out he doesn’t even need to ask what Potter’s doing because Potter makes that very clear when he shifts to lie down on his stomach, spreads Draco even further open, and licks a slow, hot swathe across Draco’s hole.

“Bloody _fuck!_ ” Draco cries out, and fuck, he wants— _needs_ to touch his cock, but the second he reaches for it Potter looks up and raises an eyebrow at him.

“Not ’til I say,” Potter says, grinning, and Draco lets out a moan. Potter tilts his head, looking up at him as if he possibly thinks the world of Draco—which is _ridiculous_ , Draco must be making that part up. “That okay?” Potter asks.

Draco swallows and nods. “Yes,” he says, barely a whisper, and Potter rewards him by giving another long, slow lick up his arse crack, leaving Draco twitching in his wake.

“Can I bind your hands?” Potter asks, and _Merlin_.

“Ye-es,” Draco says again, his voice cracking with want, and reaches out to grab his wand and hand it to Potter.

He only realizes what he’s done when he sees Potter wave the stick of hawthorne, Conjuring a pair of silk ties—who knows where he even learned such a spell—and shite, Draco’s given Potter his _wand_ , and somehow it felt completely natural. Draco feels bewitched.

Or maybe just far more in love than he should be. Merlin, he doesn’t even know if Potter would even consider them _friends_. Just that whenever he’s talked to Potter in the past few years, his heart starts pounding like he’s fucked up a Cheering charm on himself, and Potter—well. At least Potter doesn’t seem to hate him anymore. And that’s something, at least.

Potter leans over Draco and carefully ties his wrists to the headboard. “That okay?” Potter says, and Draco tests it—he worried that Potter was being too gentle, but it’s tight enough that his hands can’t slip out. The silk feels luxurious on his skin as he twists his wrists into a more comfortable position, and he gives a hard tug—yes, fuck. That’s good.

Draco nods his approval, and Potter smiles. Then he just sits back on his heels and stares at Draco, his pupils all blown out, the morning sunlight stretching out over his body.

Fuck.

Draco stares back, taking in all of him, smooth planes of skin the shade of coffee with cream, unruly hair and glasses slightly askew. He’s… he’s gorgeous.

It’s so _unfair_.

“Okay,” Potter says, licking his lips, and then he crouches down and goes right back to eating out Draco’s arse.

“Nngh—fuck,” Draco groans. It feels deliciously naughty to be bound like this. He’s completely at Potter’s mercy, but he _trusts_ him.

He may have no idea what the hell happened last night but at least, here and now, Potter wants him back.

Potter rasps the tip of his tongue against Draco’s arsehole, and then he does it again, again, making Draco clench and squirm. Except then Potter finally, _finally_ pushes in just the slightest bit, and Draco nearly keens, forcing himself to relax because he _wants_ this—

And then Potter pulls away again.

“You fucking _wanker_ ,” Draco growls, glaring at him hotly.

Potter laughs, and Draco might be mad at him for that except for the fact that he’s so unfairly attractive when he does it, his head tipping back and his entire face lighting up with joy. “What? You haven’t told me what you wanted yet,” Potter says, and Draco feels his own face flare crimson.

“That didn’t seem to be a problem when you decided to tie me up,” Draco grumbles, squirming as Potter spreads his cheeks again, face near enough that Draco can feel the heat of his breath but not touching him just yet.

Draco’s so hard he might die.

“That’s because that’s what _I_ wanted,” Potter tells him, breath puffing over Draco’s arse with every word. There’s a feral look in his eye as he stares up at Draco, ghosting a finger over Draco’s hole and making him twitch. Potter grins again and says, in a low voice, “I could do this all day.”

Draco keeps his mouth shut.

So Potter proceeds to demonstrate almost just as he said, licking lightly over Draco’s arse until Draco is quite literally sobbing from need and want and Harry fucking Potter being a fucking awful _tease_ and fuck, fuck, he needs— _fuck_ —

“Ple-ease,” Draco chokes out, voice hoarse from the lust building steadily in his veins.

Potter licks over his hole again, now messy and tender and slick with spit and lube, and raises an eyebrow. “Hmm?”

“Nngh— _please_ , fuck me,” Draco asks because fuck it, he needs this, needs _Potter_.

“You’ll have to be a little more specific,” Potter tells him, smirking like the horrible wanker he is.

“Put your fucking tongue in my arse,” Draco says all in a rush, and Potter chuckles and leans back down.

And then finally, _finally_ , Potter’s pushing his tongue into Draco, and Draco’s so ready that his body barely even resists the intrusion as Potter licks into him again, again, fucking him open, face pressed to Draco’s arse.

“Ohh, fuck, yes, like that— _more_ , I want—I want your fingers, p-please,” Draco babbles, gasping for air, and Potter grins and sits up. He slicks his fingers with lube and casts a subtle cleaning charm at his own mouth, and then that finger is back, running in circles around Draco’s hole and then pushing in.

“God, you’re so loose,” Potter mumbles, fucking his finger in until Draco can feel Potter’s knuckles brushing against his cheeks.

Draco groans. “Well yeah, because you wouldn’t fucking stop teasing me—oh fuck oh _fuck_ —”

Potter’s eyes flash as he rubs his finger against Draco’s prostate again, again, and thank Merlin Draco thought to put silencing charms on every inch of the walls of his flat because he can’t stop himself from letting out an incoherent stream of moans.

“Please, yes—that’s so—oh fuck, Potter, yes, that’s good, you’re good, you’re so good—”

Dimly, Draco’s aware that Potter’s suddenly flushing—and oh, he likes that, doesn’t he?

“You’re so good,” Draco says again, and it’s so fucking _sappy_ but it’s true. This is the best sex he’s ever had and Potter’s cock hasn’t even gone near him yet.

This morning, at least.

Potter groans softly, adding another finger without Draco even asking, and then he moves his attention away from Draco’s prostate, stretching him out in earnest now. Draco’s thankful for that—he’d been nearly ready to come, and he doesn’t want to do that until Potter’s cock is in him. He thinks he’s earned at least that much.

Potter adds a third finger, and Draco can’t even bring himself to feel embarrassed about the way Potter’s openly staring down at Draco’s arse because Potter keeps letting out little sighs that are almost moans as he thrusts his fingers in and out.

“’S good,” Draco groans, and Potter’s eyelids flutter for a moment.

He’s so… perfect.

Which is a stupid thought because Potter is most definitely _not_ perfect. He and Draco bicker almost as much as they joke around, and sure, it’s not as nasty as it was in the days of their youth, but Draco still gets angry with him sometimes—except the last time he can actually remember being overly cross with Potter was years ago, wasn’t it?

Draco’s just lovesick. That’s all. He simply has to wait for the day when his rose-colored glasses will go away and he’ll be back to seeing Potter as the fool he is.

But it’s not helping that Potter’s grinning at him, undeniable desire in his eyes, as he fucks his fingers wantonly into Draco’s arse.

“Fuck me,” Draco says, and it comes out all dumb and soft—but the way Potter’s face lights up makes it worth it.

Draco never actually thought that Potter could look at _him_ like that.

Because even though Draco’s in love with him, has been for so many fucking years—he’s never even dreamed that Potter could ever like him back.

“Unbind me?” Draco says, and Potter pulls his fingers out, leaving Draco achingly empty as Potter picks up Draco’s wand again and spells the ties undone.

Before Draco even really knows what he’s doing, he’s reaching out to Potter, grabbing at Potter’s waist and pulling him down over top of him—and then they’re kissing.

It’s—fuck. It’s more than Draco could even have imagined, finally getting to taste him, the feeling of Potter’s lips soft and pliant against his own, Potter’s tongue darting briefly into his mouth and sending sparks down his spine.

Draco could spend hours doing just this.

Which is saying something, considering that his cock is throbbing with every pulse of his heartbeat and his arse is clenching against the cool air of the bedroom, aching to be filled.

“Need you,” Draco mumbles against Potter’s mouth, and Potter nods, pulling away briefly to slick up his own cock. Then he’s back on Draco, kissing him dizzy, nipping lightly at his bottom lip as he positions his cock against Draco’s entrance.

Potter pushes in, filling Draco, splitting him open in a way that feels so fucking good, and Draco wants more, _more_ , fuck—he claws at Potter’s back on accident, but Potter groans and snaps his hips sharply against Draco’s—and Merlin, that’s _good_ so Draco does it again, clinging to Potter, loving him, drowning in him.

Potter shifts as Draco reaches down to stroke his own cock, moving forward, and then Potter’s next thrust hits Draco’s prostate—“ _Fuck!_ Yes, yes, please, P-potter—nngh, I’m—I’m c-close—”

“Yeah, fuck,” Potter mumbles in his ear, reaching down to hold one of Draco’s hands—and why is he doing _that?_ It’s bloody romantic, and Draco’s briefly caught between the edge of pleasure and fear because Potter’s being so _nice_ and Draco can’t wrap his head around it.

But then Potter looks him in the eyes, panting, and says, “C-come on, come for me, fuck—please, _Draco_.”

The wave of pleasure between Draco’s hips finally reaches its peak, and he feels himself implode, loses himself in the feeling of Potter’s skin on his and the warm burning in his arse. He clings to Potter’s hand, his body, as he spurts out between them, clenching around Potter on a stream of whimpers—and then Potter’s coming too, pressing his face into Draco’s chest as his whole body goes silently taut, fucking into him until he’s too soft to push in anymore.

Fuck.

That was… fuck.

Since when has Potter used his first name, anyhow?

Since when were they the sort to hold hands?

Draco replays the moment in his mind immediately—he thinks if he lets the memory slip then he might accidentally convince himself it never happened. But no. They’d been holding hands as they came, and Potter had called him Draco.

Potter climbs off of him, and Draco unfolds his body, wincing at the soreness from being bent over for so long. He vaguely registers that Potter’s fumbling around at the foot of the bed, and then Draco feels a gentle cleaning charm wash over him, just before Potter tosses Draco’s wand onto the nightstand and flops down next to Draco.

And Draco really, really wants to touch him again, maybe even to hug him—but he can’t even look at him right now.

Because at any moment, Potter’s going to leave, isn’t he?

So Draco holds himself very still and closes his eyes. Maybe it’ll hurt less that way.

He counts ten beats of his own heart before Potter clears his throat. “Are you—all right?”

“I’m fine,” Draco says brusquely, and unfortunately Potter’s talking to him now and so he has to open his eyes and look at him.

Potter’s so close. They aren’t touching, but all it would take is for Draco to tilt his head over, and he could be kissing him—

The temptation is too strong. Draco can’t let this keep going on, not when it has the potential to break him into a million tiny pieces.

He sighs, averting his eyes. “Why are you still here?” he mutters, and Potter’s body goes tense.

“I—oh, er, I just assumed—shite, sorry,” Potter says, and he actually looks distressed when Draco looks back up at him— _what?_ “I—do you want me to leave?” Potter asks quietly.

 _No_.

Draco swallows around the sudden lump of emotion that seems to be blocking his throat. “I didn’t say that.”

Potter eyes him quizzically. Then, slowly, he reaches his hand out and smooths a knuckle over Draco’s cheek.

Draco’s breath hitches, and Potter sighs, lips spreading into a soft smile. “Good,” Potter says, sliding his hand up to card his fingers gently in Draco’s hair. “I almost thought—I dunno, that I’d dreamed last night up, or something.”

Draco stills.

And unfortunately, Potter’s close enough to notice.

His smile fades into a frown. “What?” Potter asks. “I swear, if you were just toying with me or something—I mean, I know we were drunk, but I really thought—”

“I don’t remember,” Draco says, too quietly to hear.

Potter stares at him. “What?”

Draco clears his throat. Fuck. “I don’t remember,” he says, louder this time. “I—I blacked out. I have no idea what happened last night—I don’t even remember taking you home with me.”

“Oh,” Potter says, his eyes widening in horror. “Shite.”

“So,” Draco says, and then he hammers the last nail into his own coffin. “What did I say that managed to trick you into liking me?”

Potter gives him a strange look. Then he sighs, pulling his hand away, and that loss hurts almost more than the fact that Potter will probably get up and leave now.

“It’s nothing,” Potter says, averting his eyes.

“Obviously it wasn’t,” Draco says, frowning. “Otherwise you wouldn’t—well. You wouldn’t have just spent over an hour fucking me.”

Potter’s face hardens. “I fucked you because I wanted to,” he says quietly.

Draco swallows. “Oh.”

“I’m just thinking…” Potter sighs. “Last night—you couldn’t have said no, could you? You were too drunk, and… I dunno, Hermione’s always on about not coercing people into things, but you seemed so—enthusiastic about it all, and now you don’t even remember it.” He swallows, looking guilty. “I basically forced you to take me home with you, didn’t I?”

Draco’s eyes widen. He honestly hadn’t even thought about that.

Because he’s in love with Potter, isn’t he? He would’ve said _yes_ to anything Potter wanted, no matter the circumstance.

Fuck, it seems just as likely that Draco forced _Potter_ to come home with him. “Who instigated it?” Draco asks, feeling wildly off-balance.

Potter gives a short laugh. “Er. You, I guess—you asked me to come home with you. But I kissed you before that.”

 _Oh_.

Potter kissed him. Potter wanted to… Merlin.

“It’s fine, then,” Draco says. “I’m sure I wanted it. And you were drunk, too.”

“Okay,” Potter says, but he still looks a little guilty—what is Potter hiding?

Draco _knows_ he wanted it. He hasn’t wanted anyone other than Potter for so long that he’s forgotten what it feels like, but he can’t exactly tell Potter that without giving away the secret he’s held tightly in his chest all these years, the one he meant to take to the grave so he could save himself from the obvious ridiculing Potter would give him if he knew—

But what if—oh fuck.

What if Draco’s already told him?

Draco stares at Potter, eyes widening as he realizes that he could’ve said it last night, and he wouldn’t even have known—oh, _fuck_ —

His whole chest seizes. “What… what happened last night?” he asks, his throat scratchy.

Potter looks stricken. “We didn’t do that much—we _were_ both pretty drunk, you know, but we both ended up naked obviously, and—”

“No,” Draco cuts him off, shaking his head tightly. “It’s—that’s. It’s fine. The physical stuff. I… If you must know, I probably would have fucked you sober.”

Potter’s mouth opens and closes for a second. “Oh,” he breathes, looking relieved, but his expression goes somber again as Draco takes a shaky breath. “Then—then what’s wrong?”

Draco swallows thickly. “I just wanted to know… What did I _say?_ ”

“Oh,” Potter murmurs, his gaze heavy but fond as his eyes meet Draco’s own. “You said—”

 _Merlin_ —

“You said you loved me.”

Draco lets his eyes fall shut.

This is it. His inevitable doom. It’s not like he could’ve kept it a secret for forever anyway, seeing as Pansy and Blaise and Greg already figured it out, but _fuck_. Draco can’t even fucking remember how Potter reacted. Potter could’ve laughed his arse off before proceeding to fuck him anyway, could’ve taken complete advantage of Draco’s feelings—and hell, Potter’s probably too nice for that, but Draco still _didn’t want him to know_ —

He only realizes his breathing’s gone wobbly when he feels Potter’s arms wrapping around him, pulling him close, holding him steady, and he shuts his eyes and presses his face into Potter’s neck.

It’s a good minute or two before he finally feels calm enough to peel himself away.

Potter’s looking at him, worry in his eyes, and suddenly the room feels way too bright. Draco reaches over and grabs his wand, spelling the curtains closed, and a blissful dimness washes over the bed.

Now Draco won’t have to look at Potter when Potter breaks his heart.

“Draco…” Potter says quietly, and Draco prepares himself for the inevitability of his words, for him to say, _this was fun, but I just don’t feel the same way_ —

It doesn’t come.

Instead, Potter nudges his side and says, “Want to Obliviate me?”

Draco snaps his head up. “I— _what?_ ”

“You didn’t want me to know,” Potter says carefully. “You told me when you didn’t even really have control over yourself, you know? So we can make it so I don’t know anymore.”

“But—” Draco swallows. But then Potter will forget this whole thing ever happened, won’t he?

Maybe he _wants_ to forget.

 _No_.

Draco’s suddenly paralyzed because that would mean—that would mean Potter dislikes him so much that he doesn’t even fucking want to remember, and—

Potter gently squeezes Draco’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

Draco finally forces the words out. “I… I can Obliviate you if you really want me to.”

Potter frowns. “Do _you_ want to?”

“I think it’s stupid,” Draco mutters immediately, and fuck if he’s being selfish but he doesn’t want Potter to _forget_ that they had amazing sex, even if it was just after a drunken party—and maybe it wasn’t quite so amazing for Potter, but Draco’s pretty damn sure he at least enjoyed himself.

Potter lets out something that sounds suspiciously like a sigh of relief, but Draco doesn’t let himself believe it until Potter smiles softly at him and says, “Oh, thank Merlin.”

Draco blinks at him. “Oh?”

“I don’t want to forget. It… it made me happy, when you said you loved me,” Potter mumbles, and Draco’s heart does a massive somersault in his chest.

He’s shocked into silence.

Finally, after a moment of struggling with his thoughts, his voice erupts from his mouth—“You absolute _wanker_ ,” he blurts out. “Why the fuck didn’t you say that in the first place?”

“I—shite, sorry, I just thought you might want to take it back,” Potter says, shrugging. “I mean… you couldn’t even remember it. It could’ve just been a drunk thing, you know, and—”

Draco sighs roughly. “Look, I—what I said… it’s true, okay?”

Potter suddenly looks at him like he’d hung the moon, and Draco abruptly forgets what he meant to say next.

“Fuck,” Potter sighs, and then he kisses him softly, just once, making Draco gasp. “You—you mean that?”

Draco nods, feeling shaky. “Yeah.”

Potter’s grin lights up the room, and Draco’s heart flutters madly as Potter reaches out to stroke a hand down his face. “I—I was worried you regretted it,” Potter tells him.

“I regretted not being there to know how you felt about it, mostly,” Draco admits. “I… I didn’t think…” He can’t finish the sentence, emotion building in his lungs, so he ends up just shaking his head.

“That I could want that?” Potter fills in for him, and Draco shuts his eyes and nods.

“I mean,” Draco says, flipping his wrist over so that the faint remnants of his Mark are showing. “This isn’t exactly a glowing letter of recommendation.”

Slowly, Potter reaches down and takes his hand, flipping his wrist back over in the process. “This—” he says, squeezing Draco’s palm, “—isn’t you. Just like my scars aren’t me.” He takes a breath. “You’re the man who makes anonymous donations every year to the orphanage I started—and yes, I noticed. You’re the man who first started making the effort to reach out to people after the war, me and Hermione and Luna and everyone else. And—” He pauses, smiling ruefully. “And you’re the man I look forward to seeing every time I go to a party because I’m too fucking scared to ask you to go on a date with me sometime.”

Draco’s heart fucking blooms.

 _Merlin_.

“Wanker,” he mutters again for posterity, but he can’t stop himself from reaching out and resting a hand on Potter’s waist.

Smiling, Potter leans in close, knocking his forehead gently against Draco’s. “So,” he says. “D’you want to go on a date with me sometime?”

Draco snorts, trying to seem like he cares less than he does, but he can feel himself going red all the same. “Only if you buy me dinner. _Nice_ dinner. And drinks.”

Potter laughs. “I think I can deal with that.”

Draco feels hazy and warm, and Potter’s right there—and he’s staying, isn’t he?

So Draco leans in and kisses him, and Potter groans, kissing him right back.

It’s a long time before they break apart.

When they do, neither of them move far. “I only wish,” Draco says, panting slightly, curling himself into Potter’s body, pretenses be damned. “I wish that I could’ve seen you react.” He shrugs. “You’ll have to tell me how everything happened.”

Potter wraps an arm around his back, holding them snugly together. “How far do you remember?”

“Not much,” Draco admits. He should really fucking know better than to drink Blaise’s jungle juice, after all. “I remember speaking with you a bit when we were at the table with Blaise and Hermione—I think that might’ve been around eleven, but. That’s about as far as I’ve got.”

“Wait,” Potter says, sitting up suddenly, and Draco makes a put-out sound because he’d rather liked the way they’d been cuddling. “Sorry—only, I just thought—do you have a Pensieve?”

“I do, why?—oh!” Draco says, pushing himself up as well. “So we could use your memory…?”

“Yeah,” Potter says, smiling at him. “Want to?”

Suddenly, Draco’s nervous, even as he nods and says, “Okay.”

Because fuck, this is going to be embarrassing, isn’t it? He’s going to be a drunk, bumbling fool, and Potter’s probably going to be unfairly sexy just like he was this morning, and Draco’s probably going to feel mortified as he watches it happen all over again.

But he takes the lead anyway as they pull on their pants and leave the bedroom, walking over to Draco’s study. He pulls his Pensieve out of the cupboard, setting it on his desk, and gestures for Potter to step forward.

Potter complies, using his wand to draw a memory out of his head—except then Potter drags out a couple more memories after that, and Draco furrows his brow at him.

“What’re you doing?”

“I figured I’d show you some other things,” Potter says, shrugging.

Draco feels suddenly suspicious—there are so many memories that Potter has of him, probably terrible ones, and this could all be a massive revenge plot for being a git for all of those years—

Potter takes his hand. “Trust me, okay?” he asks.

Feeling a little breathless, Draco bites his lips and nods.

They enter the Pensieve.

After the weird feeling of disorientation goes away, Draco gets his bearings and looks around. They’re at Blaise’s party, but it’s not the one he’d been expecting—instead, he spies a large banner hovering over the stage where the Weird Sisters are playing, advertising ‘ _Blaise Zabini’s 21 st!_’

Four years ago, then.

He looks around, trying to find himself, and it takes him a moment to notice that he’s sitting at one of the tables clustered in the corner near the bar, chatting with Pansy and Weasley and Longbottom.

And Potter’s right next to him, close enough they’re nearly touching—oh.

Draco remembers this party.

It was agonizing, sitting there next to Potter, trying to pretend that he didn’t _care_ that he was sitting right next to Potter, even as the night dragged on and more people pulled chairs up to the table, shoving them closer and closer together.

Potter must’ve been thinking about something similar because the memory fast-forwards then, zooming on later in the night.

Past-Draco is laughing his arse off about something—likely whatever joke Lovegood’s just told, based on the way half of the table is laughing and the rest of the table just looks quite confused. And then there’s Potter, who is doing neither of those things.

Instead, Potter’s staring at Draco—not in the brooding, malicious way of their youth, but in a way that seems like—well, it seems like Potter’s mooning over him, to be honest, his expression bright and dreamy as he watches Draco laugh.

 _Four fucking years ago_.

How had Draco never noticed?

Present-Potter nudges his shoulder, a sheepish look in his eyes. “I just wanted to show you—this isn’t a new thing.”

No, it certainly isn’t, is it?

Draco clears his throat, which is suddenly dry as the conversation moves on in front of them. “This was a long time ago.”

“Yeah,” Potter says, and smiles. “We have been friends for a long time, you know.”

 _Friends_.

Draco takes a brief moment to let himself cherish that word, and then the memory changes to a new one.

This, too, is a party Draco remembers well. It was Lovegood’s summer solstice party, just a couple months ago, complete with a band of singing ghouls (as much as one could call them _singing_ ) and people everywhere in a state of half-undress.

Draco himself had ended up shirtless—it was much too warm outside to be otherwise, and besides, he was drunk and everyone else was doing it—but his drunk self hadn’t managed to account for the fact that Potter might _also_ be shirtless.

Which is where they are now, in Potter’s memory, past-Draco looking very flustered as past-Potter walks up to him wearing only a skin-tight pair of leather trousers. Fucking Lovegood and her insistence that everyone be true to themselves and allow their attractions to be unfettered for that one day—not that Draco had _minded_ , but it’s honestly criminal how sexy Potter looks in those trousers.

He wonders if Potter still has them.

Their past-selves make small talk, but Draco’s finding it honestly kind of hard to pay attention to the memory because _fuck_ , Potter really did look good. Draco remembers wanking over that image for weeks.

He remembers clearly what happens next—he’d ended up feeling so overwhelmed that he had to start making excuses to leave. He knew that if he stayed there for one more moment, he’d want to give into the temptation to do something stupid and _touch_ Potter—

Potter squeezes his shoulder, and Draco realizes he’d stopped paying attention entirely.

“Watch,” Potter says, and Draco nods, refocusing on what their past selves are saying.

“This hasn’t been a bad party,” past-Draco says, and yes, he’d definitely had a boner. How uncouth.

“Yeah! Luna’s are always… interesting,” Potter says, grinning, but there’s a look of nervousness in his eyes that Draco doesn’t remember noticing back then.

That, and Potter’s leaning in toward him, which might just have contributed to the overwhelming feeling of wanting to touch him so badly.

And then, just as past-Draco turns to look at the bar so he can make an excuse about wanting to go get a drink, past-Potter leans in to kiss him.

He misses, of course, and past-Draco doesn’t even _notice_. He just makes his excuses and leaves.

_What?_

Draco whirls around to look at the Potter standing next to him, eyes wide. “You—you tried to kiss me!”

Potter laughs. “I did.”

Draco squints at him. “W-well—” he splutters. “Obviously you need to step up your game then. It didn’t even _work_.”

“Just wait and see,” Potter says, turning and motioning to where the memory is again changing around them.

Finally, they’re at Blaise’s most recent party, although it’s much later at night than Draco has any recollection of. He quickly scans the room and sees Potter alone at a table, although he has no idea where his own past self is—oh, there he is now, coming back from the bar to sit next to Potter—

No, not next to Potter. On _top_ of Potter.

Draco literally is sitting in his lap.

Resisting the urge to hide his face in mortification, Draco watches as his past-self hands Potter one of a pair of firewhisky shots. They down them in tandem, although Potter splutters a little, and Draco moves closer in the memory so he can hear what both of them are saying.

Past-Draco is cackling at how Potter’s having to wipe his mouth off with a napkin. “This is fun,” he says, grinning like a loon. At least his speech isn’t slurred.

“Mm,” Potter hums, nodding. And Merlin, his hand is wrapping around Draco’s waist to rest on his hip, thumb lightly caressing the strip of skin revealed by his shirt riding up, and Draco doesn’t even deign to comment on it.

He’d probably been ecstatic.

Draco can’t believe he _missed_ this.

“Can I… can I ask you something?” Past-Potter says.

“What?”

Potter takes a deep breath, looking brazenly into Draco’s eyes. “Er, it’s just…”

“Out with it, Potter, I don’t have all nigh—”

“CanIkissyou?” Potter says, lips slightly parted in the aftermath.

“Oh!” Draco looks shocked, his cheeks going rather pink, his eyes darting downwards. “I—I suppose that would be fine.”

Potter swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “You suppose?”

“I’d like that, okay?” Draco says, and he briefly looks around the room, probably to ensure no one’s watching before focusing back in on Potter.

“Good,” Potter mumbles, grinning. And then they’re kissing, bodies snapping together like a clap of thunder, melding around each other, actually having a fucking snog in the middle of the party—

“We’re not subtle, are we?” present-Potter murmurs in his ear.

Draco rolls his eyes, snorting. “I blame you.”

“Sure,” Potter says, and his hand briefly grazes Draco’s bare elbow, setting the skin there on fire.

Finally, the pair in front of them come up for air. “Fuck,” past-Draco says. “We’re… we’re in public.”

“Yeah,” Potter says. “Er… oops?”

Draco bursts into a fit of laughter then, and fuck. He looks so—happy. Draco’s never seen his own face so free and full of joy.

What’s even more striking, though, is that Potter looks exactly the same way.

“Come home with me,” Draco mumbles, wrapping his arms around Potter’s neck.

Potter’s breath hitches audibly. “We’re, er. We’re very drunk.”

“Yes, and I want you to come home with me,” Draco insists. Potter still looks reluctant, and then there’s a brief note of panic in Draco’s eyes—he’s probably second-guessing himself now, and Draco aches for his past feelings.

“I’ll come,” Potter says quickly. “But. We should maybe, um. Not do some things?”

“I guess,” Draco says. Slowly, his mouth spreads into a smirk. “But either way, you’re fucking me in the morning,” he adds, looking pleased.

Potter definitely seems surprised at that, but his face brightens, and they stumble to their feet and make their way to the Floo.

The memory skips ahead, and then they’re in Draco’s bedroom, watching as Draco and Potter snog each other silly as their bodies hit the mattress. Potter’s on top, kissing Draco, moving further down to suck at Draco’s neck, and fuck if that isn’t sexy—it’s basically like watching porn of themselves, isn’t it?

Which is unfortunate because Draco can feel himself getting hard again, and Potter snickers beside him.

“Shut up,” Draco grumbles.

“When we get out of here…” Potter says, trailing off suggestively, and Draco feels dizzy with the surge of lust that hits him then.

“Fuck, it’s warm,” past-Potter mumbles, reaching for his wand. “Just gonna try—” He casts a spell, and then suddenly both of the two on the bed are completely naked.

“What the fuck, Potter?” Draco yelps.

“Sorry, sorry! I just meant to, um, get out of my jacket more easily—our clothes are over there, so I can get them—”

Draco laughs. “No. Stay here,” he says, stopping Potter as he tries to climb off of Draco by snatching his wand. Then he tosses the wand lightly across the room. “But no more drunk casting for you.”

“Okay,” Potter complies, eyes wide as he looks down at their bodies. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Draco says, eyes half-lidded. “Kiss me.”

“You sure?” Potter says, eyebrows knitting together. “I mean, I definitely want to, but—”

Draco puts a hand over Potter’s mouth. “Potter, I’m in love with you. Fucking kiss me.”

Potter stares at him.

Then he grins.

“Fuck, I’ve fancied you for ages,” he says, laughing incredulously. And then he does kiss Draco, but it’s sweeter, tenderer than ever before.

Draco briefly has to turn away from the memory because—fuck. Potter _likes_ him. He hadn’t been pretending, or Confunded, or lured in by the sex.

Then Potter’s hand is on his wrist. “Wanna keep watching?” Potter asks quietly.

Draco bites his lip, casting an eye toward where their past-selves are rutting against each other, all soft moans and long-winded kisses. “Maybe later,” he says. “I want to know what happens, but…”

Potter nods, smiling, and they leave the memory.

“What _did_ happen the rest of the night?” Draco asks as they steady themselves from exiting the Pensieve.

“Well,” Potter says, recounting it aloud, “We were, er, grinding, just like you just saw, and you told me all the things that you wanted me to do to you—actually, I should keep that memory in the Pensieve just so I can refer back to it,” he says with a grin.

Draco flushes. “Go on.”

“And then we both came, and you—you said you loved me again, and we snogged a bit and fell asleep.”

Twice. He’d said it _twice._

Draco feels at a loss. He’d planned to kiss Potter again now, maybe take him to bed again, but now he’s feeling so conflicted because, oh Merlin—

Potter never said he loved him back.

And worrying about that is ridiculous. Draco shouldn’t _expect_ him to magically return his feelings—hell, it’s enough that Potter is even open to going on a date with him. But that could just as easily be infatuation of some sort, and no matter what, Potter’s always going to know that Draco’s in love with him.

Draco wishes he could hex something. Probably his drunken self.

“Draco?” Potter says, and he reaches out toward him but Draco flinches.

Fuck. Draco swallows, looking away. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea—us, together.”

Potter looks wounded. “Why—why not?”

“We’re radically different, aren’t we?” Draco says, shaking his head. “And anyway… you don’t love me.”

This time, when Potter reaches out to touch him, understanding dawning in his eyes, Draco lets him.

Potter pulls Draco in close and kisses him softly, leaving Draco’s lips tingling. “You’re right. I’m not in love with you,” Potter admits, slipping his hand into Draco’s hair, warm and reassuring. “But I want to be.”

“Are you _sure?_ ” Draco asks, unable to stop himself from clutching at Potter as if it might slow his speeding heart.

“As sure as I can be,” Potter says sincerely. “I wasn’t lying when I said I’m mad for you. And I think you’re fit, and sometimes at parties I wish I could spend hours talking to you instead of faffing around with everyone else—even Ron and Hermione. Especially when they’re snogging.”

Draco snickers, suddenly feeling breathless.

It’s going to be okay.

After all, Draco _does_ trust Potter. He just needs to act like it.

“Okay,” Draco says. And then before Potter can say anything more, Draco kisses him, finally letting his feelings loose, letting himself feel how damn _good_ it is to have Potter holding him, sighing against his lips, running his hands up and down Draco’s back.

Finally, Draco sighs, pushing his face into Potter’s neck. “I’m going to wait to say it again,” he decides.

“Wait to say what?” Potter asks cheekily, and Draco pulls back to glare at him.

“You _know_ what,” Draco chastises.

“Yeah, okay,” Potter says, laughing. “You mean—to say that you love me, right?”

“Yes,” Draco says, heart flipping into his throat. “I want it to be—to be real. When I say it, I want you to—to feel the same way.”

Potter nods slowly. “I get that,” he says, eyes sincere as he gazes at Draco. “You wouldn’t have said it last night if you weren’t drunk, would you?”

Draco shakes his head. “Certainly not,” he mutters. “I’d like to think my impulse control is better than that.”

“Debatable,” Potter says, snorting when Draco throws him a look. “If it helps… I like knowing.”

“Oh?” Draco asks.

Grinning, Potter leans into him, pressing a kiss into his jaw. “It means I can look forward to falling in love with you—cuz then I get to hear you say it back.”

Draco pushes his shoulder, flushing with warmth, a tentative happiness sprouting in his chest. “Sap.”

Potter snorts, shoving him back. “Git.”

“Idiot.”

“Prick.”

“Wanker.”

“You can see that, if you’d like,” Potter says, giving him a shite-eating grin.

Draco pauses. “Actually…” He looks Potter up and down, noting the way Potter is most definitely hardening in his pants, and thinks briefly of Potter wanking off in front of him. His mouth goes dry.

Potter laughs then. “Bedroom?”

“Yes,” Draco says immediately, turning to lead him there.

And if they’re holding hands as they walk down the hallway, Draco can’t say he minds one bit.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! <3 With regards to consent, I thought it would be interesting to tackle consent of a slightly different sort - the prompt described the intricacies of consent and inebriation, and while they did have sex that they really weren’t sober enough for, Draco in this fic is far more concerned by the fact that he let something slip (that he loved Harry) non-consensually. It was also interesting to deal with consent specifically with this trope (waking up in bed with someone after being blackout drunk) because I’ve seen it generally more employed as a fun/humorous sort of plot device instead of something more serious. I hope you enjoyed!!


End file.
